Home
by sunday showers
Summary: AU- Danny & Vlad Father/Son -/ rating for hints of physical abuse/ Whoever said home sweet home, never lived here.


The air is thick with the scent of hot chocolate and warm pancakes. I pull myself from bed; quickly discarding the stuffed bear that somehow found it's way into my arms during the night. A yawn escapes me, and I crack my neck with a tilt of my head. Hollow conversation echoes up from downstairs, and I can't help finding it strange, _Dad's usually left for work by now. _My fast footsteps cross the room in a span of a few minutes, it's large, too large for a single fourteen year old, but try telling that to my father, a man who doesn't understand necessity. And besides it's really fun to run and jump at the bed at full force, my legs feeling like the jets of spacecraft ready for take off, but it's not like I do that. Play Pretend I mean. Of course not. I was too old for that.

My arm catches the top of the staircase, and I slide down the handle, just as I like it. I hear a groan from the last step and see my mother shaking her head. "He hates that," she mouths with a smirk. But that's why I do it, and she knows it. She catches my hand in her own and helps me from the railing. It's embarrassing, but multiple attempts by myself have left me sprawled on the floor, legs overhead, or bent a weird way. "Good morning," she smiles in a louder voice. She presses her lips to my forehead, and I stick out my tongue. But, in truth, I revel in the warmth she provides, the love. It sits on her, like perfume, loud and fragment, and I'm happy to have her there with me.

Her fingers still entwine mine as we walk towards the kitchen. The hallway's long and large, reminding me of the game I used to play when I was younger, where'd I yell random words and phrases up into the ceiling and listen for their echo.

"He's not in the best mood," she murmurs from beside me, pulling me from my thoughts, "Try to behave Danny."

"When don't I behave?" I ask, with a cocky shrug, but my eyes watch her face looking for bruises or marks. There's a little red in her cheeks, but I can't tell if it's from makeup, or from, well, something else. A lump, feeling suspiciously like my heart, settles in my throat and I find it hard to get the words out. A surprising amount of anger washes over my like a wave, capturing me, and drowning me in the emotion.

"Are you alright?" I growl, pulling my fingers from hers and catching her wrist instead.

"Fine, honey, really I'm fine." The words fizzle from her lips, weak and lifeless.

No I'm scaring her. I do that sometimes. It's something I inherited from my father.

"D-Danny," her hand touches the side of my face, "Danny please calm down. It wasn't a big deal."

"What happened?"

Her mouth opens, closes, and then opens again; forming words she isn't sure she wants to say. There's a call from the room at the end of the hallway, it's hoarse, but strong. "He's calling for us," my mother mutters, replacing her hand in mine, and towing me down the remaining bit of hallway at an alarmingly fast rate, "Come on now I'm starving, aren't you, honey?"

I want to scream, to say things to her, to him; _you're not supposed to be afraid of him. It just gives him more power. Stand up for yourself, fight. This isn't how love works, how it's supposed to be. / Stop hurting her. Don't utter another word, take another step, or I'll kill you, understand?_

He has his arms folded, back straight when we approach. It's his, _I'm taking no bullshit from either of you _posture, but I'm not afraid. I've grown with this man before me. I've hidden from him in nooks and crannies all over this house, and not out of fear, but for fun. It's stupid, and weak, and I know it, but I can't help wondering where that part of him went.

"Vlad," my mother says darkly. Her tone is a warning despite her anxious behavior in the hallway. She walks toward the long table and takes a seat behind him, shuttering as he slips his fingers between hers and kisses the red cheek. "We'll speak after breakfast," he purrs.

The wave crashes over me again, but I fight against it, keeping myself afloat. He wouldn't harm me, no, he never does. But this frail, shell of what used to be my mother, he would. I'd seen it, pressed up against the back doors of the closet, in the crannies when we were no longer playing. He tried to send me away, to hide me. But I always saw him do it.

At first it was only quick smacks, one or two across the cheeks. But then, as she weakened and refused to fight back, he'd grab her from behind and run his fingers up her leg, and touch, touch, touch. I was naïve, thought it was what Mommies and Daddies were supposed to do to show they loved each other. I remembered Mom smiling not just for me, but for Dad too, catching his lips in hers, and not pulling away with looks of resentment or disgust. I was thought this was just a new way, for Dad to show his love.

"Come sit Daniel," he smirks, tapping the place on his other side. His hair is long and greyed around the edges, pulled back into a long ponytail. I remember counting the hairs with him when they were still black, just white tips, and he'd told me with a laugh, _this for the time you broke the stain glass window, for Mommy crashing the Hummer, for the idiots down at Daddies' company. _

I shutter, my shoulders shaking as if running on a mind of their own. My hand catches the end of the chair at the other end of the table, as far as I can get from him. I sit, not bothering to adjust myself on the plush seat, something I'd always done. I hated those stupid cushions.

Our breakfast is already set; mine up by Dad, where I'm supposed to be (and usually do) sitting. Steams wafts off the pancakes, and even from my far spot, I can spy the m&ms the cook used to make mine, all green, just how I liked them. I bite my cheek to keep from salivating. My stomach rumbles in protest, but I try to ignore it.

"Are we having a spat Daniel?" he smirks, his knife working into his own pancakes, before starting on mine, cutting them up into pieces like he used to when I was little. He's trying to get a rise out of me, I know it. I've learned from his tricks, but I'm still stewing in my seat.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I retort, crossing my arms and focusing on the ground below my feet. My mother clears her throat, her eyes flicker between the two of us, nervous.

"Do you have something to add Maddie?" He doesn't look at her; his eyes are focused on me.

My mother shakes her head, and begins sipping the cup of tea before her. There's no other food on her plate. My hands clench at my sides, "You can have some of my pancakes _Mom_, you look hungry," I offer.

"That's sweet honey," she replies, "But I'm er, not hungry." Lies, fucking lies.

"Don't try to change the subject son, we were talking about you," adds Dad coolly, "Why are you sitting so far away?" He pouts, "Aren't you lonesome?"

"_I'm_ fine. Just wanted a change of scenery." I start grinding the knives and forks together, hoping to drown out the sound of my stomach and it's betraying noises. He smiles, his teeth sharp, and his eyes cold. "Put the silverware down Daniel, you're dulling the edges."

I drop the knives and forks, with a light _thump_. "Come sit," he orders, tilting a finger towards me, as if scolding a puppy.

"No thank you." His face flushes, the blood rushing to his cheeks.

My mother grips her hand tighter in my father's and mumbles something along the lines of, "Is just a stage Vlad, Leave him be."

He pulls back from her with force, catching her head tightly between clenched fists, "Don't bother me now Maddie," he says, "Remember we still need to talk later."

A noise escapes my throat, a sound like the grinding of glass, "No Dad, leave her alone!" His gaze, hard and cold, turns on me, but his hands hold her head firmly in place. Air whistles from her nose, her mouth.

"I'm tired of your disobedience."

The noise is deafening, a single crack that stiffens me to the bone. She hangs limp in his arms, her face ghostly pale, but her eyes open wide.

Realization seems to overcome him, a look of surprise, fear, and then ager bubbles across his face in a flicker of speed. His mouth mutters words, but I catch none of them. By the time, I'm standing, weak in the knees and still mumbling, ("leave her alone! Leave her alone!"), he's dropped her, and focused solely on me.

He's already pushed back from his chair, the noise-echoing hollow through the dining room. There's a ringing in my ears, and my forehead's sweating but I don't run. My fingers find their way into the plush, and I hold myself straight.

His breath is hot in my face, quick pants that fog my vision. "What did you say?"

I don't answer.

His hand is hot as it strikes me across the face.


End file.
